


Pink Ribbons

by sternflammenden



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: ASoIaF Kink Meme, Bondage, Breathplay, F/M, Light Bondage, Masturbation, Ribbons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 05:44:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880109
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sternflammenden/pseuds/sternflammenden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for the asoiaf kinkmeme on Livejournal.<br/>Prompt:  Walda is curious about being tied up, and expects Roose probably knows a thing or two about it. Roose at first thinks of it as just a means to indulge his little wife, but ends up being really into it.</p><p>Warnings:  There is a little bit of Ramsay in this fic, nothing graphic, but there is discussion of one of his "hunting parties" in the first section.<br/>Warnings also for ravishment kink, bondage, breath play, and underage consensual sexual situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pink Ribbons

She knew that she should not have eavesdropped on her goodson’s conversations. Roose had warned her to keep clear of his bastard, and although Walda did not think that Ramsay would do her harm, she was cautious and made certain that she was not seen. He had been standing in the stables, laughing with Ben Bones, and the horrible sound of it gave her pause. Walda had been searching for her brother for they’d had a raven from Mother at Castle Darry and she wanted to share the letter with him, but Little Walder was nowhere to be seen. She crouched in a stall, not wanting to force the courteous tone into her voice and the sweet smile on her face, for she disliked her husband’s son. He was vulgar, unkind, cruel. 

“And how did you keep her from striking you then, if she was so angry?” Ben Bones spat on the ground in front of them. Walda did not much care for him either. He had a perpetually hungry look to him, and he smelt of the kennels that were his domain. 

“Well, what do you think I did?” Ramsay grinned, and she could tell from her vantage point that he was trying to hold back his glee. “I tied the wench’s hands behind her back. Lashed her to the tree trunk like a trussed up stag, and had my way with her.” 

“M’lord is clever!” Bones clapped Ramsay on the back. “So was she worth the bother?”

Ramsay shook his head. “They rarely are though, even when they give chase.” 

They walked toward the dog warrens then, leaving Walda alone, concealed in the empty stable. She snuck towards the holdfast, patting her wedding gift from Lady Dustin, a fat little grey mare, on the nose as she went, giving the yard a wide berth as she snuck into the kitchens. 

*

She could not stop thinking about what Ramsay had said. It was evident to her that her goodson had women as he pleased, so different from her Roose, who seemed to only have eyes for her, his own wife. And she knew that there was something ugly there, just below the surface. She had seen it in the way that Ramsay licked his fleshy lips, and in the sly glance that his man had given him that afternoon. But she thought about the girl most of all, restrained, tied to some tree in the midst of the scrabbly forests that encroached upon Bolton lands. She would have been helpless, unable to extricate herself from her bonds as Ramsay’s large hands squeezed and stroked her body, unable to turn away as his lips closed over her mouth, held fast as he rutted against her in the clearing, his breeches around his knees. 

Walda wondered what it would be like, the roughness of the rope cutting into her wrists, making red marks on her plump arms. She did not picture her goodson though; the thought revolted her, and even frightened her a bit. Instead, she imagined Roose coming to her, clad in his hunting garb, well-worn black riding leathers, a pale pink cloak laid across his shoulder, knife at his belt. She could see it clear as day, could almost imagine the roughness of the bark grating against the soft skin of her back, could almost feel the tensing and trembling of the muscles in her inner thighs as she struggled to keep herself upright against the trunk. And she saw the slight smile spreading across her husband’s thin lips, slowly, his pale eyes focused on her naked body, could feel her breasts quivering with her quickening breaths, her soft belly exposed and vulnerable, her cheeks flushing as he drew nearer, and when his hands, still clad in riding gloves, took hold of her—

Walda stopped, opening her eyes. She felt a dull ache between her thighs and a flush on her cheeks. As she reclined on her bed, she had the urge to pleasure herself but thought better of it. After all, Roose was always preaching restraint, and she could certainly wait until tonight, could prolong the satisfaction that she craved until he entered her chamber. It would keep. 

*

She rooted through her vanity, looking for the satin ribbons, the only things that she felt would do. Ordinary rope was so ugly, and it would chafe her skin, and besides that, it was what Ramsay had used. That was a distasteful thought; Walda wanted things to be pleasant, to be lovely. She held the pale pink lengths against her nightdress. They fell almost to her ankles, she noted with a satisfied smile. They would do nicely. So she rolled them up, placed them on the pillow, and leaned back, waiting for her lord husband to join her, brushing the tangles from her fine hair, dusting her bosom and wrists with perfumed scent. 

When Roose entered, he did not speak, but came to her, leaning over her as she lay on the bed, curled on her side, gazing up at him as he sat on the edge of it. Walda smiled when his hand wandered to her body, fingers cupping one of her breasts, fingers teasing at her nipple through the thin lace of her bodice. They were cold, and she rested her own hand on his, knowing that soon she would warm it, soon she would warm him, lying tangled together beneath the sheets. When he bent to kiss her, she turned her head, meeting his lips, scooting up a bit to help him undress, to undo the lacings and the brackets and all of the irritating fastenings that bound him, hands reaching inside his undone tunic to caress his bare chest.

“My lord,” she murmured. “Sweet husband.” 

Roose did not speak; he rarely did when they lay together. Walda did not mind this; after all, she considered the pleased expression, no matter how faint, to be reward enough for her wifely duties. She brushed her lips against his, noting that they too were cold, and knowing that it was only a matter of time until they were not. 

“How have you been keeping yourself?” Roose asked, as she reclined again, toying with the ribbons, jostled from their orderly coils, braiding them through her fingers to create a web. 

“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, affecting a pout, “for simply hours! You neglect your wife too often these days.” 

“A necessity in wartime,” he replied, noticing her hands. “And what are these?”

“Ribbons, my lord.” She smiled, loosening them from her fingers and looping them about her wrists. “Useful for all sorts of things. For decorating a lady’s hair, for adding a lovely ornament to her clothing.” She trailed off, biting her lip, unsure how to best suggest what she wanted, knowing that he would likely not approve of it, but desiring it. And Walda was not one to ignore a craving for anything these days, now that she was Lady Bolton, wife of the Warden of the North. 

“For entangling her,” he said, undoing the strands of satin, drawing them away from her hands. 

“No,” Walda blurted, “leave it, please!” 

“Leave it?” He looked at her askance. “How are we to bed with this distraction worrying you?” 

Walda smiled then, cheeks dimpling. “We bed with it.” She raised her arms, crossing her wrists around one of the posts of her bed, holding the sagging ribbon in front of them. “Only you fasten them tight, so that I can’t free myself.” He said nothing, only continued to look at her, expression unreadable. “It’s as though I’d be your…captive,” she finished, giggling at the thought, her face pink. “It would be ever so much fun.”

Roose raised an eyebrow. “Who has been putting such ideas in your head?” Walda’s eyes widened. She had not expected to be chastised. Although his voice was light (in fact, Roose was never stern with his lady wife), he did not seem to harbor any interest in the idea. He might put the blame on her maids and dismiss one of them, and Walda loved her ladies. They had come with her all the way from the Twins and were the only other Riverlands women in the holdfast. They were her friends. So she thought of a lie, and quick. 

“Ami,” she blurted, sitting up, lowered her arms. “It was Ami. She wrote me a letter about the Crakehall boy and the sorts of liberties that she permits-”

“I should have suspected as much,” Roose replied, cutting off her flood of words, not wanting to hear a litany of her older sister’s bedroom exploits. “She is a corrupting influence on you, little Walda.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“You would do well to distract yourself from such thoughts. They only serve to heat the blood in an unhealthy manner.” He clasped her wrists in his hands, restraining her in his own way. 

“But I’ve already been thinking on it all afternoon,” she reasoned, never permitting the sweet smile to leave her face. Roose did not respond. He still held her hands in his, his face inches away from hers. “And I’ve been all alone here, without my lord to keep me company.” She bit her lip. “It would be just the once,” Walda continued, sighing softly. She nuzzled her face against the crook of his neck, feeling his hands release her, going to her hair, threading through the strands that cascaded down her back. She began to feign sobs, knowing that he could not see her face, her dry cheeks, her eyes their normal shade of blue, rather than marred red from tears of disappointment. “Does sorrow not anger the blood as well?” she whispered, kissing his shoulder, still concealing her expression. 

After some time, Roose gave in. “Very well, Walda,” he said softly. “Once.” 

She did not hide her grin. 

*

Walda arched her back, closing her eyes as her lord husband fastened the ribbons around her wrists. She was lashed to the bedpost as she’d suggested, and his practiced motions did not shock or surprise her. After all, Roose had not always been as restrained, as Lady Dustin had told her with one of her sharp smiles, and although she had suspected that the information was meant to frighten her, Walda had found it secretly exciting. He drew the satin lengths taut against her, cutting into her skin just enough to remind her of their presence, and she shuddered as his fingers, now through with their task, lighted on her nightdress, inching it down her body, leaving her bared completely in the now-chill air of the bedchamber. When she was all unclad, her lord husband slowly ran his hands along her flesh, and although they had warmed somewhat from their previous task, she still felt goosepimples on her skin, and shivered when Roose’s hands encircled her waist, digging into her soft body, pressing against her belly. 

Walda tilted forward, shuddering with pleasure as those hands trailed down her stomach and legs, feeling a wetness between her thighs. She wanted him to touch her. She wanted him to have his rough way with her as she’d imagined, but somehow, now that they were together and it was happening, she was unable to voice the suggestion. So she knelt and enjoyed the sensation of restraint, the tease of Roose’s fingers as they touched her in unmentionable places, and the look in his eyes as he beheld his lady wife, utterly helpless, bound in front of him. 

When he took her in his arms, she felt as though she could relax, go limp, but the ribbons dug into her skin and her muscles pulled. The knots were tied too expertly to permit her to recline, so Walda remained upright, kneeling on the bed, spreading her thighs as best she could. It was a pleasure, but a pain in tangent, the stiffness in her arms and shoulders and back mingling with the feel of her husband inside of her, his hands grasping her buttocks now, pulling her against him as best he could from their awkward position. She threw back her head and cried out, daring to be as loud as she wanted. Walda was always quick and enthusiastic to voice her pleasure in the bedroom. She had never been much for restraint, and although this trait was something that had often earned a mild chastisement from her husband, she knew that Roose enjoyed her response to his odd affections. 

But she did not think on such things, only concentrating on the rhythm of their coupling, his hands holding her too tight, nails grazing her soft skin, and the tautness of her muscles as she unconsciously fought against the strands of satin, deceptively fragile, that kept her against the bedpost. When he finished, when she finished, they fell apart, Walda gasping, her face flushed, her hair all a-tangle. Roose was as pale as always, but he lay on the bed, gazing up at her with his strange grey eyes, watching quietly as she struggled to find a comfortable position. There were bruises on her sides from where he’d held her too tightly. 

“My sweet lord,” Walda said, smiling despite her discomfort, “could you release me?” She struggled against her bonds, trying to break free, but the ribbons were stronger than she’d imagined. Roose watched her as she did so, a thin smile on his face. It was an odd expression, considering, but Walda thought nothing of it, only on the pins and needles that were beginning to flood her arms and hands. “Please?” she said, tilting her head, trying to act the lady still. 

Roose knelt in front of her, untying the ribbons, letting them drift downward to the coverlet. Walda collapsed on her belly, giggling, taking up the pink strands of fabric and pressing them to her lips. “I shall treasure them always,” she said, crawling next to him, nestling against his body. Her heart beat fast within her breast, and she could feel his pulse as well, though not as rapid as hers was. She drew herself up on an elbow after a time, placing a hand on her husband’s heart. The angry welts still showed on her wrist, although they were fading, and Walda had to admit, that they gave her quite a thrill to behold. Roose took her wrist in his hand, toying with the reddened area, brushing fingers over it that did more to increase the discomfort on already tender flesh, but she did not mind. “Shall we go again?” Walda murmured, placing his hand on her breast. She wanted more. 

“I am afraid that we cannot, little wife,” Roose said, rising and beginning to dress. 

Walda pouted. “But why ever not? It was so delightful, and we don’t have to use the ribbons again. We can do anything you desire!” 

She saw a brief shadow of a smirk on her lord husband’s face at the offer, but Roose did not cease his toilet, lacing his breeches and smoothing his shirt. “I must go and find Maester Tybald,” he said softly, standing. 

“Tybald? Why? You are not ill, my lord?” 

“Ill?” Roose paused. “I must be leeched. You know as well as I do how such things,” he gestured at the tumbled-in bed, her nightdress crumpled and forgotten on the floor, the ribbons snaking among the sheets, “anger the blood. I should become ill if I did _not_ go.” 

“Oh.” Walda did not understand her lord’s insistence upon such practices, but she did tolerate them, out of love for him, and after all, Northerners had such different habits than Riverlands or Southron lords. Her own lady mother had told her so, and Ami, as well, before she was wed that anything above the Neck might as well be a foreign land. “Good night then, my darling.”

He took her hand, pressing it to his mouth in a perfunctory gesture. “Sleep well, my lady wife.” 

But Walda did not sleep well. She lay abed, unclad, toying with the ribbons, running them over her wrists where they had so recently wounded her, draping them over her shoulders before the glass, running their ends over her nipples. It tickled yes, but it felt pleasant as well, and when she tightened them round her neck like a choker, enough to press into the skin, she felt her face flush, and a flutter in her belly, as she had that afternoon. Tucking the now-cherished objects in the drawer to her vanity, she retired to the bed, thoughts of her lord husband in her mind, his large hands bringing the pink satin around her throat, fingers pressing against her collarbone, teeth biting her ripe lower lip. 

Walda slid her hands between her thighs and closed her eyes. She intended to prolong the evening as long as she could.


End file.
